Out of Sight, Out of Mind

Out of sight, out of mind

Doesn’t mean a thing

At 2:39am on an autumn night

In a bed that does nothing

But shock me

With a split second of cold

Realization

When I roll over

Into unoccupied space

Where another should be.

It doesn’t mean a thing

When it’s 8 in the morning

And I haven’t pierced

The silence for the day

Because nobody has asked

If I’d like coffee

Or tea or toast

And my restless mind

Flutters to a place

Where maybe they do.

It doesn’t mean a thing

As the midday sun

Streams through white

Wisps that slowly

Move with the wind.

Maybe if I followed them

I wouldn’t feel as if

The warm rays

Had given life to everything

But me.

It doesn’t mean a thing

When, at 6:40pm

I am already crawling

Reluctantly

Into a deceivingly painful,

Unbearably empty,

Sea of cotton and memories
Because nobody is in sight

And I can’t get that out

Of my mind.